He shot a quick glance at Giovanni, who still tramped ahead, unaware of the passions being enacted behind him. Marco withdrew his hand from Emma’s body and smoothed her skirt. He felt her hand rest lightly on his head and looked up at her. She smiled down at him, and he took her hand, turning it to place a kiss on her palm. He folded her fingers over and dropped back a pace.
They were close to the cave now.
When they reached the entrance to the caves, the sun was high in the blue sky. Most of the people had gathered outside and watched in silence as the small procession approached. A ripple went through the crowd as they saw Emma perched on the horse and a low murmur rose in the air.
Giovanni came to a stop a scant three paces from the front row of spectators. Several of the women made the sign of the cross while others curved their fingers in the symbol against the evil eye, spitting on the ground. Marco’s heart sank. The mood was not good. The horse tossed its head, sensing the tension in the air, and stamped its feet. Emma leaned forward to stroke its neck, murmuring soft words to soothe it.
A young boy sprang from the crowd and Giovanni handed him the reins.
Marco saw Emma lift her jaw and straighten her back. The proud gesture pierced his heart. He longed to pull her from the horse, and wrap his arms around her, promising to keep her safe, to watch over her. Instead he stepped forward, needing to establish his authority, seriously undermined by Emma’s arrival and her flight.
He waved Giovanni aside and spoke to the assembled people. “Dear friends,” he began, “you all know how much I have sacrificed in this struggle. You all know I hold each and every one of you like a brother or a sister. I would not willingly do anything to harm you. Therefore I am asking you for mercy for this young woman.” He turned and pointed at Emma and saw the color rise in her face. “She is ignorant of our struggle. She has no understanding of what we strive to achieve. It would be wrong to punish her.”
Giovanni elbowed his way past Marco. “This man is our leader,” he said, “but he is not above our rules. His inattention allowed her to escape. If she had reached the village, we would all now be in danger of our lives. We would be preparing to make a last stand against bullets and sabers. If she can disobey our orders and remain unpunished, what will guarantee that any Blackshirt who offers a juicy bribe will not succeed in turning one of our own against us?”
A murmur of approval rose from the crowd.
“I say,” Giovanni concluded, “that the usual punishment be meted out. Unless-” he turned to Marco “-our leader refuses to follow our established code.” His eyes on Marco, he whipped the twig against his leg.
Marco glanced at Emma who sat stiff backed on the horse, her eyes flicking from one speaker to the next, trying to infer meaning from their voices and gestures. There was no real choice for him. If he let her go unscathed, he would lose his position among his people and there would be no voice of reason to keep them safe while they completed the mission they had planned. Giovanni was impetuous and vindictive, a bad combination.
He let out the breath he had been holding. “Take her down,” he ordered. “I will deal with her this evening.”
Emma knew there was a big problem. Although she hadn’t understood a word of what Marco said to the small group of people, she had recognized the strength and passion in his voice. She’d seen some of the listeners nod as he gesticulated to emphasize his points, but others had frowned and murmured in disagreement. As he fell silent she sensed danger in the air. Her heart thudded in her throat. Apprehension knifed through her, making her stomach clench.
She didn’t see the man approach her until a rough hand seized her arm and pulled her off the horse. The fellow grabbed her as she stumbled, holding her against him. She caught a waft of stale sweat and garlic and swallowed a wave of nausea.
She made herself remember all the battle-weary Houndsdales who had never acknowledged defeat. A great uncle had fought at the siege of Mafeking, a cousin had commanded a unit in the trenches in France. She lifted her head proudly.
“Get your hands off me.”
She shoved the man away and shook the loose ropes free from her wrists. Taking a deep breath she turned to face Marco. His eyes were hooded, his lips set in a stern line of disapproval, as he swiftly covered the ground between them and barked an order at the one who had manhandled her.
She touched his sleeve. “Speak to me. Tell me what’s happening.”
“Later.” He freed his arm, gave an order to a young man standing nearby, spun on his heel and walked away.
The youth took her arm.
“I can walk by myself.”
He obviously didn’t understand English because he tightened his grip and pulled her toward the cave entrance. She lengthened her stride to keep up with him rather than be dragged along.
Without a word, the young man led her inside the cave entrance and stopped at a doorway built into the rock face, opened the door with a large, metal key and thrust her through it. Emma stumbled into a cell chiseled out of the bare rock. She whirled around, but the door slammed in her face.
She beat her fist once against the solid wood, then took stock of where she was. With her back to the door, she estimated a span of about six paces to the back wall, maybe ten from side to side. A wooden bench with a coarse-looking blanket stood against the left-hand wall. Nothing else. Through the thickness of the door she could hear the hum of activity gradually pick up as people resumed their tasks.
What did this mean? How long would they keep her here? On trembling legs she moved forward and sat on the bench, which creaked and shifted under her weight. She didn’t need a translation to know that Marco was fighting to retain his leadership of the group. Whether it was only because of her, or for other reasons, some of his followers were ready to rebel. Back home they’d once hired a new footman who had ideas of advancement that put him on a collision course with the head butler. She recognized all the signs of hostility and discontent amongst this group. Where did that leave her? Right in the middle, the meat in the sandwich, as they say.
For the first time she realized there was a slot cut into the door, roughly at waist height. Getting to her feet, she crouched and put her eye to the gap.
She could see nothing but the backs of women, busy stirring pots. A faint waft of soup drifted towards her, mingled with the smell of boiling clothes. The combination was sickening.
After a moment, Marco came into view, deep in conversation with Irena. Emma’s irrational heart leaped in her chest, her breath seized up, and her knees felt weak. His hair was tied back once more and his dark head was bent low as he listened to the girl. He touched her arm. His breath must be fanning her cheek. Irena looked up into his face and Emma felt a stab of jealousy such as she’d never felt before. She couldn’t breathe. Seeing him with Irena, unable to reach him, sent raw need flooding through her. Heated memories of being in his arms last night warred within her against her anger and jealousy. Marco was a handsome man. He was powerful, strong. Did the leader have the pick of the girls? Why wouldn’t they all throw themselves at his feet, dammit?
Emma drew a deep breath and called his name. He looked up, staring at the cell door, and said something more to Irena. The girl nodded. Emma called again, more softly, and this time he came over to the door. He squatted, bringing his face close to hers, and she saw the lines of fatigue etched in his face. He’d arrived at the farmhouse at dead of night, had climbed all day and hadn’t slept last night because of her. He needed to rest. She tried putting her hand through the slot, but then couldn’t see him. She could touch him or look at him. Not both. She chose to leave her fingers for him to grasp and in a few moments she felt his hand on hers. She gripped him tight. He was her anchor.